


Release Life's Rapture

by janvandyne



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Spartacus (TV) Fusion, F/M, Gladiators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-08-30 04:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8518444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janvandyne/pseuds/janvandyne
Summary: You spend the summer at your godfather's villa where you meet Jacobus, his champion gladiator.





	1. Chapter 1

 

x edit by 264jana on tumblr x

* * *

_Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator._

_Don’t stop to think, don’t interrupt the scream,_

_exhale, release life’s rapture._

\- Vladimir Nabokov -

* * *

Sword meets spear, steel against unyielding steel, sending a symphony of sparks flying from both men’s weapons and onto the sands. You can feel the roar of the crowd around the pulvinus where you sit, the vibrations finding haven in your otherwise motionless body, creeping its way through your heart like desire. But even still, the sound of steel rings in your ears, drowning out all other noises of the arena until all you can hear is sword against spear against shield.

The day is growing late, coloring the sky with a deep magenta glow that signals the approaching dusk. Though the sun is slowly descending, the heat still lays on you like a blanket, surrounding you, warming your already overheated skin as you absentmindedly call for wine.

You startle when you feel a hand at your shoulder. Your thoughts have been intent on the games, but now free from your reverie, you smile up at your godfather and accept the glass offered to you.

“I had not known you were so captivated by the games!” Alexander says, pleased at the revelation.

“I have only now realized their appeal,” you admit before taking a sip of your wine. 

You have to hold back a grimace. Not Cestian, you note. Next time, you will be sure to request water. You hand the glass off to your body slave and turn your attention back to the display before you.

It is not the games themselves that you have learned to favor, but the gladiators who fought in them. More precisely, one gladiator in particular who is putting on quite an impressive show at the moment, leaving you fixed on the edge of your chair.

The gladiator’s hard body shines radiant beneath the Roman sun, so much that you believe that he must have been sculpted from bronze, carved with thoughtful, meticulous strokes, lovingly crafted by the gods themselves. He is made of strong lines and chiseled plains, wide shoulders tapered down to a slender waist. Powerful arms, stronger legs, a graceful jaw paired with eyes like jewels and lips red as sin.

Jacobus is the most glorious being that you have ever seen.

“A spectacle isn’t it?” Alexander asks you. “Jacobus is well versed in pleasing the crowd.”

“Well versed, indeed,” you reply, though you are not so joyous. 

The thought of this match has plagued you since news of it. Jacobus and the undefeated Champion of Capua fighting  _sine missione_  – to the death. It was enough to reduce you to tremors. But now, seeing the two before you, your nerves quickly fade, leaving only longing in their wake.

Jacobus owns the arena – the sand beneath his feet, the swords in his hands, the crowds clamoring around him. His opponent will soon be his too. The day will be won and he will be the new champion.

Jacobus side steps his opponent’s attack, leaving the man sprawled upon the ground. He quickly recovers, though, and lunges for Jacobus who evades the sword meant to pierce his stomach and bends beneath the weapon. He then lands a blow to his attacker’s back, once more sending him to the sand.

Jacobus’ laugh finds its way up to the pulvinus, wrapping around you like a tangible thing. You have heard him speak in the ludus, instructing his fellow gladiators with the right combination of firm demands and helpful guidance. You have heard his during practice spars, taunting his opponent with playful banter. You have dreamed of his voice, of Jacobus whispering in your ear as he thrusts inside of you, passionate words made rough and thick as gravel. If you were deaf to everything but the gladiator’s voice, still you would be a contented woman.

“Does your gladiator fear nothing?” you ask of your godfather, never taking your eyes off the man in question.

“Jacobus is fear!” Alexander says. “See how the Champion of Capua quivers before him!”

And how you quiver, too, now that you can share in your uncle’s mirth, for he spoke the truth. Not but minutes after his declaration, the once champion’s head rolls upon the sands, his body dropping to the ground. You cannot suppress the smile that blooms upon your face as Jacobus’ name echoes through the air, a steady throb trembling throughout the amphitheater, not so different from the one forming between your thighs.

* * *

Once back at the villa, Alexander takes both you and his wife under each arm. “A celebration is in order!” he announces, pulling you two tightly towards him. “The House of Pierce will be on every tongue in Capua!”

You smile at your uncle’s rejoicing. A celebration was in order, indeed. Jacobus’ victory in the arena has turned the incessant fire within you into an inferno, not easily quenched nor sated. The flames lick at your flesh, heating your body with a sultry blush, so much that you fear your godfather would feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Truly this has been a most joyous day,” you reply, moving from Alexander’s side, “but I believe it is time for me to retire for the evening. The hour grows late, and I am weary from such blessed excitement.”

“May you have peace in this night of celebration!” Alexander’s wife, Ophelia says. “Surely the men in the ludus are commemorating their house’s victory tonight as well. I pray the noise does not resonate too loudly in your chambers.”

You give the woman a courteous smile. “A discomfort born free from grievance. The Champion of Capua must be honored, on this a most splendid day.”

“And what of our champion?” Alexander contemplates, to your pleasure. A plan has already been set into motion, one now being carried out so easily without much prodding on your part. “Surely he should be properly rewarded for his showing in the arena,” he continues.

“All the wine he could ask for,” Ophelia replies. “I’m sure the others will see that his glass stays overflowing.”

“And women!” Alexander says, then turns to his body slave. “See that his bed is overflowing as well!”

Ophelia looks for a moment aghast, but then corrects herself before anyone notices but yourself. You don’t dwell on it for any length, though, for other thoughts were plaguing you beyond another’s odd behavior.

“Preparations would have to be made,” Ophelia explains. “For tonight, wine will suffice.”

You pause to feign thought for a moment before speaking once more. “I could send my slave, Octavia, to pleasure your champion. Surely a tribute such as she would be most welcome, yet untouched as she is.”

“A generous offer,” Alexander declares, clearly approving of your idea, eager to start partaking in his own celebration. “I will send someone to prepare your slave immediately.”

“Oh! There will be no need,” you say, glancing at Octavia. The girl’s expression is veiled, but you know that you will be chided once in the privacy of your own quarters. You are in no mood for a lecture, but you know that the outcome will be well worth it. You turn back to your uncle, attempting to conceal your excitement. “I will see to Octavia’s preparations.”

* * *

“Do you think this wise?”

You turn and consider your companion. “And of what do you speak?” you ask with mock curiosity. 

Octavia scowls at you, and in turn, you can’t keep the smile from your face. You begin to remove your jewels as you wait for her to answer.

“You think me so dense I cannot see through your schemes?” Octavia asks you. “I am quite aware you won’t be sending me to the gladiator this night. You plan to go in my stead.”

You laugh, quirking a brow. “You know me well.”

She does. She knows you better than anyone else, and though you are younger than her, you have known no one longer. And though she is, strictly speaking, your slave, you have a deeper connection with no one else. You two share a similar visage, as well. Lips akin to one another, eyes both of identical shape but of a slightly different color, both beautiful in your own right and similar to those who regard you two only in passing. Some people remark on how she favors you, while most stay silent, all obviously aware of your father’s indiscretion.

But to you, Octavia is your closest companion. Your slave only by birth and custom. You know your only difference is your mothers’ stations, and for a purpose unknown, the gods have seen it fit to bless you with a proper Roman birth. Octavia was your sister regardless, and were it that your roles were switched, you know that she would treat you similarly.

“You worry for nothing,” you reassure her, but Octavia merely shakes her head and begins to assist in undressing you. You give her nose a soft kiss. “Do not be so sullen.”

Octavia throws her hands up with a sigh and moves away from you. “We could be caught,” she tries to explain, but her concern falls on deaf ears.

You groan in irritation as you remove your clothes and launch the bundled fabric at her. “If someone comes, merely feign sleep. ‘Tis a simple task, carried out time and time over.”

“And what of you?” she asks, walking the clothes to the closet. “You could be hurt! He is a gladiator! He put a man to grass today!”

“And how I trembled as he did!” you reply, smiling at Octavia through your vanity mirror’s reflection as you take your hair down from your plaits. You cock a brow at her agitated expression. “Would you deny me my one desire?” you continue, pouting.

“Your one desire?” she asks, incredulous. “Never have you desired only one thing. You are a greedy girl and the gladiator will quench your thirst for now, but then eyes will be set upon new conquest. When you have your fill you will leave him as you do all things.”

“No,” you respond, appalled. “No, never. If he were mine, I would never see him from my arms.” Your eyes twinkle with mischief as you smirk. “Or my cunt.”

“The mouth on you!” Octavia gasps. “Just because you seek to lay with a savage doesn’t mean that you have to behave as such.”

You gasp in displeasure. “Jacobus is no savage!”

“And you know this how?” she asks and you feel your cheeks heating at the words yet unspoken, knowing how they will sound in the ears of your companion. Your thoughts will seem naïve, childlike, but they are so heavy on your tongue that you must speak them anyway.

“His eyes,” you say. “The depths in which are more vast, more cerulean, than any ocean. How I long to gaze into them as he touches me, his war-hardened hands gripping my flesh. His voice deep and low in my ear.”

“You talk as if in love!” Octavia says, clucking.

“Nearly so,” you reply.

“You have yet to even share words with the man,” she says, “and now you make declarations of love.”

You don’t respond, not quite knowing what to say, so Octavia leaves you to disappear into her adjoining room and the returns with a handful of folded clothes. 

“Will this suffice?” she asks, unfolding the stola and holding it up for you to see.

It is something Octavia has not worn in ages, too small and too short, but perfect for you and your purpose. You drape the fabric over one shoulder and wrap it around your waist, letting it fall high on your thighs. You cinch it with a belt of woven gold thread and tassels, then slide your feet into Octavia’s sandals.

“Come,” she beckons and then she dabs scented oil onto your skin where Jacobus might linger – behind your ears, in the hollow of your throat, the valley between your breasts. She removes the gold collar from her own neck and places it around yours.

“Should I mark your skin as well?” she asks sarcastically, eyeing your bare ankle. 

Octavia’s bares your family’s mark, permanently tattooed to signal her as a slave.

“That seems a bit unnecessary,” you reply, smirking at your companion. “The marks he will leave on my body will be well worn.”

Octavia rolls her eyes as you smooth down the fabric around your thighs. You admire yourself in the mirror as you speak. 

“In any case,” you say, “I am more than capable of taking care of myself. You of all people should know.”

Before she can respond, you turn around so that Octavia may gaze upon your completed appearance. “Do I look a slave?” you ask.

“No,” she says. “You look a Roman in slave’s clothing. As always.”

You smile. “For tonight, it will do.”


	2. Chapter 2

Alexander has already moved Jacobus’s living quarters. No longer does he sleep in the dank, dark bowels of the villa, but across the training arena, underneath the open sky. His room is one of four, the three unoccupied on either side of his own, built in to the mountainous cliffs that surround your godfather’s home. It offers him not only a reprieve from the commotion of the ludus, but privacy as well, of which you are thankful for.

And while the night gives way to celebration for his fellow gladiators, the champion chooses to spend his time in said cell, apart from the others, instead of reveling in the joy that he himself brought to the House of Pierce.  

You try not to retch at the sights and smells and sounds, all so overpowering to the senses. The gladiators and the whores bought for the night are lost in their celebration, drinking and fucking, paying you no mind. But even so, you attempt not to draw attention to yourself, winding your way through the maze of bodies like a mouse, nose turned toward promising reward.

You only feel as though you can breathe again once you step outside underneath the night sky, but just barely. The air is dry, the ground parched from lack of rain, the dust unsettling with every step. It’s still hot, despite the late hour, and you can feel the promise of sweat prickling at your skin as you make your way across the training arena.

Your heart is pounding, stomach fluttering as you knock on Jacobus’s cell door, and in your eagerness, you open it before he has the opportunity to grant you entry.

You close the door behind yourself, hand lingering on the rough wood to give yourself another moment before turning toward the gladiator. You watch as he stands from the bed with a slow and weary stretch, not at all threatened by your sudden appearance.

You’ve never been so close to the man, always looking down at him from the villa balcony or pulvinus at the arena, and from your position now you can see than he is even bigger than you imagined, taking up all the space in the already miniscule cell.

He is bare but for his subligaria, his skin glowing in the candlelight, and the light too, accentuating the lines around his eyes. He looks… tired, world-weary, but even so, he still maintains an air of strength and superiority about him.

You look up at him beneath fluttering eyelashes as he walks toward you, only a few sauntering steps to get to where you stand, your heart beat hastening as his eyes, so sapphire blue, never leave your own.

A small smirk slowly forms upon his face, and in your momentary weakness from the glorious sight, you don’t respond quickly enough when he reaches out and takes your jaw in his calloused hand. He turns your head first this way and then that, and although you are unsure of his intentions, you allow him to do so. After a moment of appraisal, he releases you, but makes no move to retreat.

“You’re bold to be here,” he says, voice rough but quiet.

“I am bold to my purpose,” you reply, attempting to steady your own voice. “I come bearing gifts. Wine for our champion.”

You hold up the amphora of wine to emphasize your point, along with two cups that you brought for him and yourself. You then set the cups on a small table beside you, but before you can pour the wine, Jacobus lets out a laugh, startling and confusing you.

“Do you find me amusing?” you ask, cheeks aflame.

Jacobus takes a step even closer to you, and you don’t know whether to stay put, firm in your courage, or to move away, farther from his reach. You choose to stand your ground, not giving him any reason to doubt your devotion.

“Though you do bear a striking resemblance to your slave,” he says, “I am neither simple nor blind.”

You are stunned speechless. No one has ever caught on to your scheme, recognized you in the guise of your companion. No one has ever given you a second look while hiding true self behind false façade, and then here is this man, not with you but for a moment, and he can see through you like glass.

“I wonder what venture is so great,” he continues, “that you would put yourself in such compromising position.”

There’s no point in denying it now. No reason not to voice true intent.

“I have noticed how eyes wander to the balcony as you train,” you tell him, “in them something akin to desire. The same in which is reflected in my own.”

“Desire?” he repeats, a question.

“Yes,” you reply, regaining confidence. “And I desire only the finest in all things. Silks from the ports of Neapolis, exotic furs from across the seas. The most exquisite foods, the sweetest confections. And now I desire the finest gladiator, a warrior from beyond the mountains, standing a masterpiece as though chiseled by the gods themselves. Better than the softest furs, the most succulent fruits. Better than all the wonders of the world combined.”

With a trembling hand, you allow yourself to reach out and touch him, fingers fluttering down the hard expanse of his chest. His skin is hot, slick with oil from his cleansing. Oh! you think, to be the strigil in which he must hold so tightly in hand every night, to feel the curves of his body, the hard planes.

How such a simple thing causes you envy, yet he is here with you now, and you would touch him, memorizing his every inch, every detail of his form, carved so carefully as though lovingly tended to by the greatest master of the art.

You follow the trail of dark hair that leads down from his stomach to the top of his subligaria, disappearing beneath the inconvenient fabric. 

“You  _are_  a thing of beauty, are you not?” you say, more to yourself than to him.

You don’t wander any further down, but instead, you run your hand back up his stomach, his chest, his neck. Your fingers trail across the braid down the side of his scalp, behind his ear, but before you can sink your fingers into his hair, he grabs your wrist and stops you.

“You see me as a  _thing_  to add to your collection?” he asks. “A trinket for you to use?”

You stare at him in confusion, taken aback at his tone. You thought he’d be flattered by your appreciation of him. Did he not realize that your declaration was one of praise, words a reflection of the heart?

“I do not mean it as a slight,” you tell him.

He growls, “Though I receive it as one.”

“Most men in your position would be pleased!”

“My position?” he repeats, jerking you closer by your wrist. “You think because you are Roman and I am slave, I would drop to fucking knees to please you? That I should be flattered that you would deign to look upon me with something other than contempt?”

“No! I merely –”

“You are used to getting what you want,” he continues. “But  _I_  do not want a spoiled Roman whore.”

You gasp at his words and begin to fight against him, but he is immoveable. You cannot pull your wrist from his firm grasp, and in your anger and frustration, you drop the amphora resting in your other arm to the ground, the clay shattering and wine covering your feet.

You use your now free hand to try to push him away, but he only takes that wrist in his other hand, trapping you completely.

“Have you been so long a slave,” you ask, fatigued from your struggle, “that you have forgotten when someone does not treat you as one?!”

His nostrils flare, eyes darken like a storm, as he forces you back against the door. He holds both of your wrists in his grasp, above your head, and in your fear you no longer fight against him, allowing him to do with you what he wishes in hopes that you’ll be left with no more than bruised skin.

“You have not treated me like a slave?” he asks.

His voice is soft again as he bends down to speak to you, his lips so close to yours they would brush if he so desired them too. It’s a cruel imitation of a near kiss, so like the one you would have risked all to receive before you stepped foot in the gladiator’s cell.

“You come here to use me,” he says, “deceive me. You want me for your own pleasure, with no thought to my will, my choice.”

You’re suddenly ashamed. In your hubris you thought your presence a gift, with no thought it would be denied or ill-received. You did not consider how such deception would make him feel. Even if he did give in to desire, how he would feel if desire was misplaced, projected on to the wrong person?

You turn your face away, but he grabs your jaw with one of his hands, makes you look up at him again.

“To what end?” he asks, and his brow softens with the question. “Do you merely wish to fuck a gladiator? There are many others who would have you.”

You can feel the tears filling your eyes, whether from fear, humiliation, or rejection, you know not. But you aren’t going to allow him to see you cry. You may seem foolish in your venture, but you refuse to look weak.

“Apologies,” you plead. “Desire was born of good intentions.”

He lets you go, but he does not yet move away. You bring your wrists down, close to your chest, and rub the sore and aching bones.

“If you truly wish to please me,” he says, “send me someone who could actually stir my cock.”

He turns from you and walks to his bed, lays down with his hands behind his head, eyes closed. It’s a clear dismissal and you don’t have to be told any more clearly to leave. You open the door to flee, but before you do, you hear his voice once again.

“Send someone with more wine, if you would,” he says. “I would not want the night of my victory to go to waste.”

* * *

Octavia is occupying your bed when you return to your chambers. Her room is joined to yours, but she is playing her part, pretending to be you, and you are glad of it. You need familiar and loving arms to comfort you after such a disastrous night.

“You’ve returned too soon,” Octavia whispers as you crawl in to bed beside her.

“He did not want me,” you reply, trying to control the tremor in your voice.

You feel shattered like the glass you are, scattered in to infinite pieces, left trailing from Jacobus’ cell to your own room. You’re scared, sorrowful, and desire sleep so that maybe you can be free of this waking nightmare. 

"How could he not want you?” Octavia asks.

“He called me a ‘spoiled Roman whore,’” you tell her, flinching at the words.  “His words do ring true.”

“That beast!” she gasps. “How dare he say such a thing! And you, determining worth on the words of a gladiator!”

You hold on tighter to your companion, not having strength enough for anymore words. Octavia persists, though, not allowing you to hide from cruel reality.

“How did he know it was you?” she asks. “Did you tell him?”

“No,” you reply. “We are not so alike as I thought. You are wise and I should’ve listened to you, but instead I chose to play a child’s game. How will I ever be able to face the morning sun?”

She strokes your hair. “Helios will show you mercy as he rides his chariot across the sky. You must only take leave of your bed and the task is done.”

You two lay in the dark, in the silence. Her words do lift some of the weight from your shoulders. Has the world ended because you’ve been denied? No, you suppose, you will move on. No matter how difficult the thought seems.

“Your step-brother comes one week hence, for the Vulcanalia,“ Octavia tells you. “Your godfather came to inform you when you were away.”

You sigh. “Oh, how the gods piss on me this night.”

Your step-brother, Brutus, is the only family your have left, though not by blood. The only true blood you have left in the world is Octavia, though Rome does not recognize the kinship, and by unfortunate fate she is condemned to be a slave. Your mother died when you were young, and some years after, your father married Brutus’ mother. And then she, too, died. Along with a child as she was giving birth. And if those tragedies were not enough, your father passed within the last year, leaving Brutus as his sole male heir.

He took control of the family villa, and since married a senator's daughter, Yelena. Brutus is a legatus - a high ranking military officer, and away for much of the time, leaving you as sole steward of the villa, but since Yelena came to live with you, you could not stand to be there any longer, and you had to leave. Thankfully, your godfather allowed you to stay with him.

“Yelena will be close in tow, no doubt,” you say to your companion.

“ _She_ is the spoiled whore,” Octavia replies, the lilt of humor in her voice. “But worry not, for Ronan accompanies them as well.”

Now,  _that_  piques your interest. Ronan, your step-brother’s childhood friend, turned rival in more recent years. You have always fancied him, appreciated his wit and beauty. He is a legatus now, like your brother, but yet free from bond of marriage. This visit could prove profitable.  

“Remove gladiator from thoughts and turn them toward proper men,” Octavia says, and you can tell by her tone that the discussion is ended. 

And although you try to take her advice, your dreams that night are of rough hands, sapphire eyes, and wounding words soothed with healing kisses.


End file.
